


The Black Velvet Band

by startwearingpurple



Series: Unsinkable [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 11:23:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14747888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwearingpurple/pseuds/startwearingpurple
Summary: Siobhan Fitzgibbon goes home to Cork the summer after her sixth year at Hogwarts, and finds solace in something unexpected: music...





	The Black Velvet Band

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Chapter 1: The Black Velvet Band  
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She never looked forward to the summer holiday.

The summer holiday had come much more quickly than Siobhan Fitzgibbon had wanted, as they always did, and when she’d gotten off the Hogwarts Express in London and said her goodbyes to her friends, watching them leave with their families, she made her way alone with her trunk to the Muggle taxicabs. She didn’t bring a pet to school. She never did. She had a toad, as it had been on the list for first-years, but her best friend took it home with her every holiday, so that Siobhan wouldn’t have to answer awkward questions from the Muggles at the airport. She took a cab to Heathrow airport, where she could fly home to Cork.

It was a shock to jump from the wizard world to the Muggle world, and she felt uncomfortable on the plane, though she’d changed out of her robes on the train and wore Muggle clothing. She knew she was different and always thought everyone else must see it too, but all they saw was a young Irish girl with curly reddish-brown hair and freckles across her nose.

The Cork airport was bustling, but it didn’t take her long to find her da. He waited at the baggage claim as he always did. He never came to the gate like everyone else’s families. Her da didn’t do much of anything like everyone else’s families.

James Fitzgibbon was tall, with steely grey hair and eyes the same colour of blue as hers were. She didn’t much resemble her father otherwise. She didn’t know if she looked like her mother; she couldn’t even remember her. Her da had never said, and there weren’t any pictures to compare. He was square-jawed and had gotten heavyset now he was nearing fifty. He had the same stocky build that his mum had had. Sturdy Irish bones, her nan had always said. His hands were large and callused from years spent working with ropes and nets on fishing boats.

“Hello, Siobhan,” he said gruffly. His voice was a low bass, rough and scratchy from years of smoking.

“Hi, Da.”

She didn’t hug him, and he made no attempt to touch her at all. Siobhan didn’t notice really. It was normal for them. She found her trunk quickly, and her da took it out to the bus stop for her. They took the bus into Rathcooney, and Siobhan sat at the window watching the colourful row houses go past, while her da read a beat-up old novel next to her. Neither spoke during the short trip. They walked from the bus stop to the dreary little flat they shared whenever both were in town. It had an empty and neglected feel to it. When her grandmother was alive, it would have been warm and inviting to come home to, and the greys and whites of the flat hadn’t felt so gloomy and bleak. But that was years ago, and Siobhan hardly remembered how it felt to be welcomed home. She only knew welcome from her friends at school now.

Her da had a stew cooking on the stove, and Siobhan retreated to her room to unpack a little before dinner. Her da called her to dinner while she was still unpacking, and they sat at the little round table together in silence, Siobhan picking at her stew. It was such a difference after yesterday’s end of year feast that it felt surreal to be sitting at this tiny table with the only sound around her the sound of her da’s jaws working. She didn’t feel very hungry, but she ate the stew anyway. Her da made pretty good stew. It was almost the only thing he could cook.

“How’s school?” her da grunted without looking up, eating his stew.

Siobhan shrugged. “It’s all right.”

“Do ye have lots of friends? Lots of boyfriends?”

She had no idea why he suddenly wanted to pretend her cared about her. She hadn’t spoken to him since she’d set off for London and the Hogwarts Express alone last year. He never wrote her either. “Both, I suppose,” she said finally, her voice grudging. She did not want to discuss boys with her da.

“Well ye might not know it about your old da,” he said doggedly, “but I was always very popular among the ladies, especially in the Emergency…”

Siobhan rolled her eyes as her da went off on a tangent, and as usual, she didn’t listen to a word he said. Her da was a great liar. He would tell you that he’d served with the Americans in World War II and been in several famous battles, but he hadn’t really. Her nan had told her while she was still alive that James Fitzgibbon had been a cook on a Naval vessel and that the only action he’d seen had been topless women in the Philippines while he gambled with the other sailors. Her da acted like he was this great American hero who’d come home to Ireland to create more miracles there. The only thing that was true about any of his stories was that he had gone to America as a baby: his mum had taken him and his older brother to New York during the War of Independence, and he’d stayed there until after his two-year stint in the United States Navy, then he’d come home to Ireland with his mum. His brother had stayed in the US. Siobhan had never met her uncle.

Siobhan didn’t have much family. She’d grown up quite alone, with her father always out to sea. Her mother had run off somewhere, never to be heard from again, when Siobhan was a baby. She didn’t know any of her mum’s family. Her nan had died when Siobhan was ten, before she’d had her Hogwarts letter and found out she was a witch. All in all, she hadn’t been sorry to go away to school that year. Her da hadn’t seemed to miss her at all, nor had he missed his deceased mum or his runaway wife. He’d always been totally focused on himself, and the sea. He was always at sea. She’d heard him singing late at night sometimes when he was ashore: _Give me to the roaring breeze, and the white waves heaving high, the world of waters is our home_ …

“What’re ye going to do this summer?” he asked her then, drawing her attention back to him.

“Dunno,” she said. “Do some reading, I suppose.”

“Ye should go into Cork town and see about a job,” her da rasped severely, as if having a steady job had ever been something he’d done. A different boat every year, but always at sea. On shore he couldn’t seem to find work, he just wound up in the gambling dens, haemorrhaging money.

“I might,” she said noncommittally. “When do you leave again?”

“Tomorrow. You’ll be all right alone?” He didn’t look up from his food. He wasn’t really interested in the answer. It wasn’t as if he’d stay home if she said she wouldn’t be.

“I always am.”

She went to bed after dinner, though she wasn’t tired much, and curled up on her bed with her wand laid on the pillow beside her. The room was musty and cold; she hardly spent any time in it throughout the year. She doubted her father had aired anything while she was gone, even if he were home.

She was of age now. She didn’t know why she’d come home, really, except that her da didn’t believe she was of age and wanted to pretend he was an involved father for a few moments and tell her what to do before he went to sea again. This coming year would be her last at Hogwarts, and she’d no idea what to do after that. She didn’t particularly want to stay in England, though she didn’t think of herself as a Fenian like her da who despised all Englishmen on principle; she just didn’t really want to stay there. She didn’t know what to do with herself in England. She thought she might come back to Ireland and find some other magic folk around here, maybe go to Dublin. She could go to America; her da had joint citizenship and she thought she could go easily enough because of it, but America had never particularly interested her. She certainly wasn’t going to come back and live with her da again, that much was for sure.

She’d no idea what to do with her classes. She would be getting N.E.W.T.s in Charms, Potions, Transfiguration, and Care of Magical Creatures. What did one do with those? She didn’t know. She wished she had a wizarding family like Molly’s or Cecilia’s to ask for advice, or to even know what sorts of things wizards did after school. She had a vague notion that she could do something with dragons, she loved dragons and Care of Magical Creatures was her best class, but she didn’t really know how one went about getting a job like that. There were no longer any dragons in Ireland, so she’d have to leave to work with them. She didn’t know if she wanted to leave Ireland, though there was nothing for her here.

Her da left the next day, off on one of his ships, muttering about paying the bills and the bookies, and Siobhan was alone. She puttered around the little flat every day, but cleaning it didn’t take long when it was only her there, and eventually dipped into the pocket money her da had left her to buy a few used novels from the local Muggle bookstore. They kept her occupied as she sat on the wide window sill in the evenings, wishing she had someone to talk to. She had an owl later that week from her best friend Cecilia Fletcher, who was in France on holiday with her parents, and one from another close friend, Molly Prewett, who was spending her summer holiday at home, with Arthur Weasley popping by regularly. Siobhan wished she’d kept on with at least one of her boyfriends from the past school year, just to pass the time. She spent the next day writing both of her friends a lengthy response and sent off owls to her other friends, Hattie Habbershaw and Petula Cordingley, to check on them as well, missing their presence and even missing Hattie’s stupid Gryffindor Girls Council, though she’d never tell her that.

She never really spoke about her life at home to her friends, other than to mention that her father was a sailor, and her friends didn’t know how alone she was when he was gone. There weren’t any other witches or wizards in her little town on the outskirts of Cork. There must be some in Cork, it was a big city, but she’d no idea how to find any of them. Her da wanted her to see about a job, but she’d have to do that next year after graduation, so this was the last year that she could have a lazy summer, living in her da’s little flat in Rathcooney without having to be an adult. She was not going to get a job until it was time to leave here forever, but it was lonely, that was for certain. He’d never know the difference anyway; he certainly wouldn’t write to check on her. She wondered if he’d even come home to see her off before she went back to school.

The weeks dragged by and Siobhan grew more and more lonely, even with her friends writing her regularly. She started going down to the local pub in the evenings, for the simple presence of other human beings. They wouldn’t serve her any alcohol, since it was a Muggle pub and she wasn’t eighteen yet, and she didn’t know anyone after spending the past six years away at Hogwarts, but there was music and laughter and the familiar smell of pipe tobacco, and she sat at the bar drinking a glass of Coca-Cola, smiling at the boy with the fiddle. He couldn’t have been more than three or four years older than her. He seemed shy, though; he never came and talked to her.

One night in the pub when the small band was playing, she found herself humming along, sitting with the bar at her back to watch the musicians, especially the boy with the fiddle. She knew the songs they played; her nan had sung them as she worked around the house, and in the evenings to entertain young Siobhan. They were playing one of her favourites from her childhood, a rollicking tune that had always made her happy when her nan sang it. One of the women who worked in the pub was doing a light jig behind the bar. The atmosphere was so ebullient, Siobhan started to sing; she couldn’t help herself.

The young fiddler looked surprised to hear her voice, but the man playing the bodhran and singing gave a shout of laughter and waved her up next to him. Siobhan had never lacked for brass in her life and went over next to him and kept singing, her drink in her hand.

The bodhran player stopped singing for the final verse and Siobhan sang it alone, still smiling. She loved this song and didn’t care who was watching, who heard her. It felt good not to be alone, to be the centre of attention.

The applause from the pub was enthusiastic. Siobhan was surprised; she’d only ever sung for her nan before, who said she was good yes, but she was her nan, what else would she say? The man who played the tin whistle with the little band patted her on the shoulder, the accordion player was congratulating her on her “lovely Irish soprano” and the bodhran player was telling her to sing again.

She sang ‘Black Velvet Band’ and ‘The Boys of Kilmichael,’ because she loved the former and knew the latter would go over well. Cork was the Rebel County, after all. Her own grandda had fought in the Kilmichael Ambush with Tom Barry, as her nan had proudly told her many times and her da continually reminded her even now. A table of old women in a corner were wiping their eyes when she’d finished ‘The Boys of Kilmichael,’ so she started something more upbeat, ‘The Jolly Roving Tar,’ though it reminded her unpleasantly of her father.

> _Ah, don't you leave me, Johnny lad, I thought you'd marry me_   
>  _Says he I can’t get married, for I’m married to the sea_

She went back to the bar after that, though the band protested, and found the woman behind the bar who’d been dancing had drawn a pint of Guinness for her. The woman gave her a wink and Siobhan started drinking happily. She’d had beer before of course; her da wasn’t the most watchful of parents even when he was around. Still, she was quite happy to have it now. It tasted like acceptance in a town she’d hardly known since she was eleven.

One of the little old ladies in the corner hobbled over to her and patted her with a gnarled hand.

“That was lovely, dear. Yer grandfather, God rest his soul, would have loved to hear you sing that.”

Siobhan murmured a thank you, and gave the old woman’s hand a squeeze, and she patted Siobhan’s hand again and retreated to her table. The boys of Kilmichael, her grandfather; the roving tar, her father… What was she?

Siobhan finished her drink and noticed the fiddle player was gone, so she paid for her drinks and left, walking home slowly down the street. She heard footsteps behind her and glanced over her shoulder. The fiddler.

He caught her up and walked next to her for a moment before asking, “Who are you? I don’t remember seeing you in town before.”

“I’m James Fitzgibbon’s daughter,” she said shortly.

“I didn’t know he had a daughter,” the fiddler said with surprise. “My father sails with him sometimes.”

Siobhan was not at all surprised that her father had never mentioned he had a child. Why should he? He wasn’t any kind of father anyway. “I go away to school,” she said. “I only come home for summers, and I don’t usually leave the flat much.”

“But you did this summer?”

She shrugged. “I’m older now. I don’t need to stay home and wait for my da to remember I’m there.”

The fiddler looked surprised and raised an eyebrow at that. She rolled her eyes at herself in annoyance. Why had she said that? She didn’t care that her da was disinterested; she’d gotten over that years ago. Stupid roving song, stupid beer, making her slip up and say something stupid.

“Who are you?” she asked, to cover her discomfiture.

“I’m Michael Dugan,” he said, holding out a hand.

She shook it. “Siobhan Fitzgibbon.”

“That was some brilliant singing, Siobhan,” Michael said.

“Thanks.” She gave him a considering glance. She was bored, and lonely, and he wasn’t bad looking, with dark hair and eyes and a slim build. It was better than the nothingness she had now.

He walked her home, telling her about the band he played with, and she pretended to listen, though she didn’t much care. She was too tired to bother inviting him up that night, so she told him to come back tomorrow and they could do some tunes together, him on the fiddle and her singing. He agreed and left back the way they’d come, his fiddle case slung across his back. He seemed like a nice boy, and he played the fiddle wonderfully.

Siobhan went up to bed alone and curled up with her wand on her pillow again. It was getting to be a habit. She didn’t know why she did it. Safety, in the flat alone? Her connection to the world she’d left behind at school? It didn’t matter; so long as the wand was there where she could open her eyes and see it. She fell asleep with the music still echoing in her head.

*

Michael came by the next day to see her, just as he’d promised, and she made a pot of tea and a tray of shop-bought biscuits for them as he rosined up his bow. By the time the tea was set, he was already warming up with ‘Jug of Punch,’ and as she sat down at the table across from him she started to sing.

Michael grinned at her as he played. They sang a few more drinking songs next, and Siobhan started to relax. She hadn’t even been aware of the tension she’d been carrying in her shoulders all day, possibly all summer, but it was sliding away now as the music washed over her and carried her along in its tide.

She watched Michael as she sang, and though she would normally have felt an urge to kiss him, since she kissed anyone she could while she was at Hogwarts, she found she didn’t care any longer. She just wanted to feel the music. They sat at the table sipping tea in between songs, and he played the old songs her nan had sung: ‘Whiskey, You’re the Devil’ (which she rather thought she’d sing in the pub next time), ‘Johnson’s Motor Car,’ ‘Finnegan’s Wake,’ ‘Mick McGuire.’

After three quarters of an hour of singing, Michael put down his fiddle and wiggled and stretched his fingers with a sigh.

“You’ve a beautiful voice, you know,” he said, smiling at her.

“Thanks,” she said, feeling embarrassed. “You’re the best fiddle player I’ve ever heard.”

“Ah, you’re coddin’ me,” he said, but he looked pleased.

She smiled. “No, you are, really.”

“Thanks.” He picked up a biscuit and took a bite, asking, “Where do you go to school?”

Her gaze slid away from him. She stared at the biscuits, and took a sip of her tea to give herself a moment. Obviously she couldn’t tell him about Hogwarts. “In Scotland,” she said evasively.

Fortunately Michael didn’t press her for the name of her school; he was busily eating biscuits and drinking tea and didn’t seem to notice her reluctance. “Do you like it? What’s Scotland like?”

“I like school, yes, and Scotland’s beautiful. It’s very cold in the winter.” She shrugged. “There’s a lake next to the school, and we have picnics outside sometimes when it’s warmer.”

“It sounds grand,” he said. “So what are you doing on your holliers?”

“I’m on the doss,” she said cheerfully. “My da said I should get a job, but I’ll be damned if I will.” She half-expected to hear someone saying ‘Language, Siobhan’ at that, but none of her friends were around. “I’m supposed to stop swearing,” she added in a burst of honesty. “My friends at school are always telling me to stop.”

“Don’t like the effin’ and blindin’, do they?” Michael grinned. “But you’re a sailor’s daughter, of course you swear.”

“That’s what I’ve told them,” Siobhan agreed, and they both laughed.

They chatted for a bit longer, then Michael had to leave for work. He worked at the local market, stocking groceries in the evenings on nights when he wasn’t fiddling in the pub. She watched him go and thought how odd it was to have a friendly conversation alone with a boy that wasn’t immediately followed by some snogging.

*

The summer passed uneventfully, with her days spent at the house alone or visiting the shops in Cork and wandering the city by herself, and her evenings spent at the pub, singing with Michael and his band. Michael stopped by sometimes to play the fiddle while she sang, and she never tried to kiss him or be more than friends with him. She felt relaxed whenever he’d come by, feeling the music wash away her worries, and she started singing to herself around the house as she cooked or washed dishes, and putting records on while she read or watched the telly.

Over one weekend when she was in Cork just before the summer ended, Siobhan wandered slowly down the street in the city centre and stopped in front of the shops to look in the windows, looking at things she wished she could buy, but her da hadn’t left her much pocket money. Most of his money went to his bookies. One window drew her full attention: in a travel shop amid posters of faraway places was a large poster of Blarney Castle, showing its high stone walls and the river creeping placidly past the castle, surrounded by emerald trees, with text beneath it extolling the virtues of visiting the castle and kissing the Blarney Stone.

She stared at the picture of Blarney Castle in the window. It was what tourists did, her nan had said, so they’d never been, but now she was seized by an urge to go and kiss the Blarney Stone. If she wasn’t going to come back to Cork after Hogwarts next year, she ought to go and do it this summer. She could go now, she realized with a start. She could Apparate there, she’d gotten her Apparition license, and Blarney wasn’t far anyway. It would only take a moment to get there, and she could be kissing the Blarney Stone this afternoon. It would be her first adventure as a grown witch, all alone, and her last thing to do in Ireland before she left for school next week.

It was better than doing nothing.

She took the bus back home to Rathcooney and stood in her da’s apartment, concentrating hard on the image of the trees around Blarney Castle that she’d seen in the poster, with the name echoing in her head. She spun on the spot, feeling her way into nothingness, and the next thing she knew she was in the woods with the castle looming nearby. It wasn’t as big as she’d expected. Things rarely were. There were Muggle tourists milling about at the base, and she went to join them.

Siobhan climbed to the top of the castle with the Muggle tourists, and when she reached the top she took in the view. Blarney was a lovely area, and she gave a small sigh of pleasure as she looked around. How could she ever leave Ireland? It was home, it was everything beautiful she’d ever known; it filled her soul and made her sing.

She got in the line to kiss the Blarney Stone, feeling a bit silly but determined to go through with it since she’d come. A small but sturdy old man was assisting everyone to lean out upside-down, holding the bars that had been put on the castle wall for this purpose, and kiss the bluestone. When it was her turn, she laid on her back and stretched out fearlessly across the wall, grasping the bars. Her rusty curls stretched out over her head, hanging down into the void. A rush of exhilaration shot through her as she looked at the ground above her head, and she grinned.

“Careful now, dearie,” the old man said, grasping her arm with a surprisingly strong hand. “It’s slippery there.”

She leaned out, upside down and on her back, and kissed the stone. She could have sworn it warmed to her lips when they touched it. The old man helped her pull herself up, and she stayed at the top of the castle to look out over the trees for a time before going back down to the ground and walking into the trees.

She didn’t feel any different, but she’d kissed the stone and that was at least one thing she’d accomplished this summer she could tell her friends about at Hogwarts, aside from sitting in a pub every week, singing. Maybe there’d be some blarney in her after all and she could put it to good use in her final year at school, especially on her N.E.W.T.s.

Siobhan glanced around to make sure no one could see her, and turned on the spot, Apparating back to her da’s flat, back to solitude, but it didn’t seem so disheartening this time.

*

Siobhan waited until the last possible moment before leaving her da’s flat for the airport. She hadn’t heard from him all summer, which wasn’t surprising, but she still hoped he would come home to see her before she left for school. When it finally became painfully obvious that he wasn’t coming, she pulled out some paper and pencil and left him a short note to say good-bye, and made sure the flat was empty of anything belonging to her.

The cab ride to the airport and the flight to London were both lonely, but she was looking forward to returning to school and her friends. She had just walked into the terminal from her plane when she found herself enveloped in a tight hug and half-choking on thick, glossy black hair. Siobhan returned the hug, relieved not to be alone any more but also genuinely glad to see her best friend.

“I’m so glad to see you!” Cecilia Fletcher exclaimed as she let go of Siobhan and stepped back. She had gotten quite tan during her holiday in France, and she looked rosy and happy.

“I’m happy to see you too, Cilia.” Siobhan grinned at her.

Cecilia looped her arm through Siobhan’s as they walked down to the baggage claim, and Siobhan was grateful for Cecilia’s affectionate presence.

“What did you do this summer? Did you have a good holiday?"

"Well, I kissed the Blarney Stone," Siobhan said, shrugging.

"Is that all?" Cecilia demanded. "You must have done something else. Did you lead loads of Muggle boys astray?” she added with a wicked smile.

Siobhan laughed. “No, I didn’t.”

Cecilia patted her hand. “Well, that’s all right, we’re off to school tomorrow and I’m sure you can find someone there to lead down the primrose path.”

Her lips curved into a satisfied smile. “I’m sure I will.”

* * *

A/N: I don’t usually do much of an author’s note, but this story rather needs one. Siobhan is an OC from my Molly/Arthur story, who is part of Molly’s circle of friends, and has a tendency to use random boys at Hogwarts in a futile, unconscious attempt to work out her daddy issues (none of which were resolved here, but that’s life). Most of the songs mentioned in this fic, which are all Irish folk songs (and one sea chanty, but they’re all in the public domain which means they are not under copyright protection), were sung by my family growing up, so they mean a lot to me. You just haven’t lived until you’ve heard your 95 year old great-grandmother singing “whiskey you’re me darlin’ drunk or sober” (from 'Whiskey You're the Devil').

If you’d like to hear some great Irish folk music appropriate to the 1960s, check out the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem. If you want a version of one of these songs that sets the tone for this story, go download Kellee Bradley’s “Bold Fenian Men” from her album The Season. The other song I encourage you to take a listen to is Kate Rusby’s “Sleepless Sailor” from her album Sleepless. Both are modern, but they helped inspire this story: Siobhan’s relationship with her father and her home and the tone of isolation and sadness. If you want to know why Siobhan is the Black Velvet Band, Google it and read the lyrics ;)


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